Seattle 1

February 27, 2014

Here is the odd thing: I woke up at exactly the time by the clock I wake up at home, three time zones away.

Plane rides inconsequential. I slept nearly every minute of them. Studied Shaw in O’Hare.

I have a palatial room, 911, with no view, at the Fairmont Olympia. Compared to the rooms you get in New York, it is a suite, an estate. The whole place is rather royal. Seattle itself is happy and friendly, the people sweetly open and smiling. Very good vibration from the mountains or the sea. I went immediately to the Art Museum (it lies downhilll), with its modest, lively, non-exhausting collection. Miro was featured. There was a little too much Craft of the Northwest Indians for my taste. You ask a question and you get a history; I like that. Bought a green bag. Stepped out onto the street and people complimented me on my green bag. Wandered around, absorbing at least the central city.

Went to the colossal Convention Center and registered for the Conference. Had a drink in the wine bar in the Sheridan. The bartender looked like Thor, and I had a lively chat with a drop-dead gorgeous guy whose intonations made me think he was from Brooklyn. We were coming up with of outrageous ways to get Thor’s attention, which, in the end, alas, proved unnecessary. Drinks and salad at the Fairmont, in the great lobby, where I borrowed a sheet of paper from the desk clerk and wrote a poem. Of course. It is a writers’ convention.